


Not in Lone Splendour

by des_cieux



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-06-29 23:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15739158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/des_cieux/pseuds/des_cieux
Summary: A Jedi on the run needs to travel light. Without attachments. But maybe, this boy can be an exception.Star Wars AU/Crossover





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A Star Wars AU I’d planned for Week 1 of ichiruki month, but oops there goes half a month before actually writing ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_Nii-sama, I beseech you for your help. I don’t know how the HoloNet will report what has befallen the Jedi Order tonight, but what I saw was a squad of clone troopers execute Master Ukitake and most of the Jedi stationed with us on Kuat. I imagine that very soon, it will be deemed treasonous to shelter any Jedi, but I don’t know who else to turn to. As long as this channel remains secure, I await on Corellia for any sign of aid._

 

**19 BBY, Coronet City, Corellia**

 

Initially, Rukia intends to flee farther than Corellia, considering how close it orbits to the new Empire’s nexus of Coruscant, but after the infliction of laser fire from the fight to get off Kuat, the navigation computer of her Eta-2 Actis-class interceptor starts to spit sparks at her fingertips. Thus, she resigns herself to landing her starship not in the capital’s heavily patrolled spaceport, but instead, in a shoddy landing field on the periphery of the less supervised Blue Sector. Pirating thieves pose a more likely risk in these parts than running into CorSec law enforcement so she activates her ship’s cloaking device before disembarking, but just in case anyone does come around to ask questions...

 

“You didn’t see a girl land here,” Rukia instructs the Sullustan in the guard booth, her lilac eyes meeting his black ones as she _plucks_ the brief visual and encounter from his mind.

 

“I didn’t see a girl land here,” he repeats as he accepts her mental persuasion as his reality.

 

Master Ukitake used to chide her and other padawans that they were never to use such mind tricks too liberally. Abuse of the technique, he’d say, suppresses another individual’s free will and the truth more generally; reserve mind tricks for when you have no other way to resolve a potentially violent situation.

 

Her master is dead now, and Rukia can only hope that she is honoring his teachings while balancing her resolve to not join the ranks of assassinated Jedi accumulating across the galaxy.

 

As she enters the cacophonous territory of Treasure Ship Row, she mostly ignores the hawking calls of street vendors, eager to sell ship parts, weapons, and the occasional mechanical limb. She’s not going to bother repairing her ship; the model is too commonly recognized as a Jedi-preferred starfighter. She’ll have to find someone willing to make a trade for her ship and then hopefully exit from this planet in a more atypical ride. It’s been ages since she last laid eyes on the Jedi-friendly smuggler Urahara though, and she’s deliberating which direction in this sprawling bazaar lies his shop when she spots a black-armored Imperial Death Trooper raising his blaster pistol at a civilian. Two civilians actually. The orange-haired youth shifts, planting himself in a defensive stance in front of a sandy-haired young girl.

 

“I don’t care what your Imperial mandate says,” the youth snarls, undeterred, foolishly so in Rukia’s grim opinion, by the pistol aimed at lasering a hole through his spiky-tufted skull. “I’m not letting my sister walk home alone, and I’m not interested in enlisting so get out of our way.”

 

“We’re not here to draft you,” the trooper agrees before elaborating, “We’re here to take you to the Inquisitors, regardless of your cooperation.”

 

“Try it, Buckethead —”

 

“Excuse me, Sir?” Two heads swivel and tilt to look down at their diminutive interrupter. With a pasted-on smile and a slight gesture pointed toward the trooper, Rukia continues, “This isn’t the person you’re looking for.”

 

She meets more resistance in this trooper’s mind than she did in the previous guard. Not surprising. The trooper — a cloned soldier, not a birth-born recruit — is focused on completing his task. Skimming his thoughts as she tries to tweak his memory of the assignment, Rukia absorbs how he’s an excellent enforcer of his higher-ups’ commands, he’s never failed before, he’s received direct orders from the Inquisitors to bring this Force-sensitive boy to them — wait, what? Force-sensitive? Rukia nearly fully retreats from the trooper’s mind as she glances curiously at the boy in question. He and his sister stare back with equal bewilderment. Force-sensitive perhaps, but definitely not trained in the ways of the Force.

 

“This isn’t the boy you’re looking for,” Rukia repeats. “You should try searching in another sector.”

 

The jet-black helm dips as if the head underneath has suddenly become too heavy to bear upright. “I’m going to search in another sector,” he acquiesces and begins to march away.

 

Sighing in relief, Rukia shifts her attention to the boy and girl, but behind their shoulders, the throng of shoppers is dispersing with shrieks as another black-armored figure heads toward them, this time carving vermillion pinwheels in the air with a double-bladed lightsaber.

 

Kriff. “Run. Now!” Rukia barks at the boy and his sister, charging past them and whipping out her hand, palm thrust forward, to Force-pull a tarp off a market stall. The heavy sheet follows the commanding trajectory of her hand, and with a sharp half-rotation of her wrist, the tarp enfolds itself around the head and body of the advancing Inquisitor.

 

Rukia lunges, igniting her own saber in mid-air as she drives the plasma blade down and into the staggering shoulder of the momentarily-blinded Inquisitor. She’d aimed for the head, but within seconds, the Inquisitor’s blades shred the obscuring tarp into ribbons before countering with a Force shove that sends Rukia knocking into and overturning crates of round purple Jogan fruits. Childhood years of brawling in the streets still inspires her to weaponize whatever lies within her admittedly limited then-and now reach, and so she shoves a wave of ripe produce rolling toward her pursuer. It forces the Inquisitor to leap for an overhead strike, and she sidesteps before slicing her saber in a blue crescent that cleaves through the attacker’s lower right hamstring.

 

Falling with a cry, the Inquisitor howls at her. “Jedi scum! We’ll cleanse the galaxy of you traitors! You think I’m the only one on Corellia hunting for the dregs of your Order? We’ll —”

 

Rukia cuts him off by swerving her blade to hover at his sweat-tinged jaw. “Is that your primary objective on Corellia? To track surviving Jedi?”

 

“Oh you’re just a sweet addition to the catch. We’re here for the young minds still untainted by Jedi teachings.”

 

“You mean that boy back there?”

 

“Hey Jedi girl, I’m right here.” Indeed he is, poking his carrot head out of a window above them. “More bucketheads are coming this way. Least I can do is offer you an escape route so hurry and get up here!”

 

Rukia nods before turning briefly back to the Inquisitor, one hand curving as if to cup the sneering face and delivering through the Force what she hopes is an unconscious state populated by nightmares. She feels like a barefoot street urchin again as she springs from crate to tarp to the stone edge of the balcony next to the boy’s window, fingers scrabbling for a better grasp on the balustrade.

 

“Here.” He’s in front of her in a flash, hoisting her up and over the railing before Rukia can protest that she’s a Jedi, well technically a Padawan, but still she’s the one who supposed to help others.

 

“Sorry for not being any help back there,” he mutters in a low voice, though his eyes don’t avoid hers. “I should’ve done more. That guy was twice your size.”

 

“Most two-legged upright creatures are,” she quips, shoving him toward the door. “You said you have an escape route right? Time to get these troopers off our tail.”

 

He nods and leads her into the building before breaking into a run and glancing over his shoulder to make sure she’s following from room to room, corridor to corridor and then across a bridge that connects to a neighboring structure.

 

Running for one’s life is part and parcel of the Jedi lifestyle, and she likes upending people’s expectations of her physical capabilities so she speeds up and vaults down a flight of stairs ahead of him with enough time to breathlessly say, “I’m Rukia by the way. What’s your name?”

 

“Kurosaki, Ichigo Kurosaki.”

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“Stop. There’s someone with aggressive intent waiting to attack us.”

 

The sense of a lurking peril started as a tingle along the back of Rukia’s neck and now flares as they stand on the threshold of the Kurosaki family home.

 

Alarm momentarily flashes across Ichigo’s face before he appears to realize something and simply rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s not a real attacker, it’s just my —”

 

A long metallic shaft swings out from the shadows of the darkened home, meeting the bisecting arc of Rukia’s lightsaber, ignited out of instinct. Rukia’s sword arm is already twisting to deliver a reverse grip counter-attack when she discerns that what she just cleaved in half was a household vibro-mop. The middle-aged man holding the remaining half of the mop tosses it and bounds toward them as if Rukia were not brandishing a blade of pure plasmic energy near his limbs.

 

“Now that’s my boy! I send him out to get groat chops for dinner, and he brings home a girl!”

 

“Dad, she’s not a girl!” Ichigo hisses, promptly wincing at the erroneous assertion. “She’s a Jedi! She’s the one who helped Yuzu and me in the market earlier.”

 

Extinguishing her saber and tucking her loose padawan braid back into her ponytail, Rukia attempts a smile. “Sorry about that, sir. I haven’t encountered many friendly strangers these last few days.”

 

“There’s a lot of people trying to arrest Rukia,” Ichigo elaborates.

 

“Considering what just happened in the marketplace, I’d say there’s probably a lot of people trying to arrest you too,” she shoots back.

 

“I see…,” the amused father remarks. “Well, why don’t we get both of you past the doorway, and we can speak in less conspicuous and less audible quarters?”

 

Rukia allows them to guide her deeper into the house, but protests as the sandy-haired sister emerges to offer her steaming sapir tea from a thermajug. “Thank you for your hospitality, but the longer I stay here, the more danger I place you all in for harboring a Jedi. I have to find this smuggler Urahara and get off Corellia as soon as I can obtain a serviceable ship.”

 

“Oh, but Daddy knows Urahara!” Yuzu tells her, insistently pressing a sticky sweetmallow square into Rukia’s hand to pair with the tea. “We visit his shop sometimes, but Urahara-san always warns us to not touch anything because it might explode in our faces. Or it tends to be illegally acquired.”

 

“Indeed I do know the man,” Isshin affirms. “Old friend of mine. I’ll contact him right now and ask him to come over. Ichigo, find Rukia-chan something to wear from your sister’s wardrobe. She’ll attract less attention out there if she looks less like a Jedi.”

 

It’s a cozy home, Rukia observes as she trails Ichigo into his sisters’ room. At the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, she, adhering to the ascetic lifestyle of the Order, retained only the most basic of material possessions — a rigid boa-wood cot, a workbench, a week’s worth of rough-spun brown and black Jedi robes. Everything else was communally shared, and her eyes inquisitively study the various personal items in the girls’ room.

 

“Is this droid broken?” she asks, brushing dust off its ochre plating.

 

Ichigo glances over his shoulder, snorts, and goes back to rummaging. “I don’t even think that mishmash of junkyard metal qualifies as a droid. Yuzu spotted it in Urahara’s shop years ago. She thought it was cute so he gave it to us for free, but I never managed to fix its programming and get it working. It’s an EG-9, and its logic circuits are a complete mess because his components are from at least three different droid models. Here, see if this dress fits.”

 

A quick, soft laugh escapes Rukia as she shakes out the rolled up fabric. She hasn’t ever owned anything this flowery. Even when she’d lived with Nii-sama and worn dresses more frequently, the silk had been of the plain, unpatterned variety in accordance with her adoptive brother’s tastes.

 

“Oh, um, you might also want to do something about your hair.”

 

“My hair?”

 

“Well, that braid signifies that you’re a padawan right? You keep tucking it back, but it’s probably easier to just wear your hair in a style less preferred by Jedi but more common among girls generally.”

 

Rukia blinks owlishly at him. Sure, she can unravel the braid, but she’s in low possession of ideas of how to alternatively style one’s hair; training and fighting have never demanded that she cultivate such knowledge.

 

Sighing, he strides over to her, snatching up a brush along the way and muttering, “Well, Yuzu wore it like this for months.”

 

Ichigo moves behind her, and this time, it’s the skimming graze of his fingertips dividing her hair into two parts that elicits a lingering tingle at the back of her neck. Running a warm hand over her right temple to smoothe the hair back, he gently loops one bunch of hair through a fastener before coiling the interim pigtail into a bun above her right ear.

 

“You do this for your sisters?”

 

“When there are three kids on the continual verge of being late for school and a dad’s proposed solution to hasten morning routines is to offer to chemically perm everyone’s hair, you learn things.”

 

As he finishes securing the twin bun above her left ear, Rukia uncoils the plait of hair he’d left alone, her padawan braid, and decides to let the strands hang loose, framing her face with slight curls.

 

She does not look like a girl on the run, as Isshin excitedly proclaims upon their rejoining the rest of the family in the room where Urahara has arrived.

 

“Kuchiki-san, it’s a relief to see a member of the Order still standing,” he tells her, his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. “I don’t know if you’ve had the chance to access the HoloNet recently, but the news from Coruscant is that former Chancellor and now Emperor Aizen issued Executive Order 66 on some fabricated basis that the Jedi tried to assassinate him and seize power for themselves. Since then, there’ve been reports of clone troopers slaughtering Jedi on —”

 

“Every planet where we’ve been stationed during the end of the Clone Wars,” Rukia finishes grimly. Names, belonging to strangers in relation to those currently in the room but names of people precious to her, coat the tip of her tongue — is Kaien alive, is Renji okay? “We were on Kuat for months with clone troopers that we trusted with our lives, as our comrades. When the first person fell from a shot in the back, the others were still processing that it was going to be our fellow soldiers gunning us down.”

 

“Do you have a plan, Kuchiki-san?”

 

“Admittedly, not really. I was just planning on finding some route to the Outer Rim and reaching out to any other survivors. I can’t stay here, especially since our wrecking of the bazaar earlier will doubtlessly reach Imperial intelligence.” Rukia jerks her head in Ichigo’s direction. “An Inquisitor in the marketplace specifically identified him and was out to capture. Apparently, the boy’s Force-sensitive.”

 

Said boy does not confirm or dispute her words, instead seemingly immersed in contemplating the holographic portrait of a smiling woman above the family’s dining table.

 

“Ah, I suspect the Inquisitor’s effort may have been part of Project Harvester,” Urahara supplies. “Rumor circulating around that Arkanis Academy has stepped up their recruiting of youths recently, and they’re not just looking to produce your typical Imperial cadet. If all this is true, they seem to be trying to develop a distorted substitute group, loyal to the Emperor only, in place of the Jedi Order. May I suggest an alternative to your plan?”

 

Pivoting to address Isshin as well, Urahara continues, “I don’t know if Imperial agents have flagged your son by name for capture, but at the very least, they will receive reports of a young man with such a...distinctive hair color causing a ruckus in Treasure Ship Row as well as —” He swivels to gesture with his fan at Rukia. “A young woman with a well-crafted but currently impractically flashy sword — we shall get you a nice blaster pistol Kuchiki-san, and yes, I know you Jedi regard it as comparatively uncivilized, but it’s more prevalent among civilians. Isshin, what I think would be best is for you to take your family off-world and lay low for a few weeks in case more Inquisitors come looking for your son at your address here on Corellia.” Urahara’s eyes focus past Isshin’s shoulder, toward the same holograph Ichigo was gazing at. “Masaki-san’s ancestral home is still intact in Naboo’s Lake Country, is it not? You could comfortably keep a low profile there.”

 

Scowling, Ichigo retorts, “That’s the Emperor’s homeworld too. We’d be right under his nose if we went there.”

 

“Oh I think he’ll be quite preoccupied in Coruscant for a while, trying to subjugate the galaxy and all. If anything, I predict that like other despots, the Emperor will reserve his more lenient border policies for his homeworld’s economy while cracking down on other worlds. As for you Kuchiki-chan, I think you should go to Naboo with this lovely family.”

 

“I already sent a message to my brother Senator Byakuya,” Rukia objects.

 

“And has he responded?”

 

Rukia says nothing, the jut of her lower lip, stifling excuses she would otherwise make for her brother, and her tense posture telling enough.

 

“Alright, that’s settled then. Kurosaki-kun, those are some singular auburn locks on your head truly, but might I suggest a temporary coloring agent?”

 

* * *

 

The family disperses speedily to prepare for their journey, Isshin to ready the Corellian light freighter that will carry them to Naboo, the twins to pack — _lightly_ , their father emphasizes, and surly-faced Ichigo to apply whatever hair dye Urahara has procured for him. Rukia’s pacing in the hallway, debating whether she dares sending Byakuya another plea for help via subspace transceiver when Ichigo sticks his head out of the ‘fresher doorway to ask, “Hey, want to give me a hand with this so I don’t walk out with random orange patches in the back of my head?”

 

Inside the ‘fresher, not a stitch of clothing extends above the sloping ridges of his lower abdominals as he slants his upper body above the sink and lightly shakes his dye-wettened hair.

 

With tufts of his hair already turning black, he looks like Kaien, she realizes with an ache.

 

“I don’t think shaking like a dog helps the pigment spread,” Rukia mutters as she enters his radius cautiously. She hates asking people to bend down so she gingerly places her fingertips on his clavicle and applies enough pressure to direct him to sit at the edge of the bathtub. Sheathing her hands in disposable gloves, she squirts out more of the dye, attentively combing the inky substance through his orange spikes root-to-tip with her fingers while trying not to press too close in his personal space.

 

“So you have a brother?” Ichigo asks, shoulders rolling and neck arching slightly. His eyes are closed so she can’t decipher if teasing the dye through his hair is producing an unpleasant sensation or a more relaxing feeling, but she figures that he’d be the type to gripe openly if she were really hurting him.

 

“Sort of. We’re not blood-related. It’s simpler to refer to him as brother, but in truth, he’s my brother-in-law. My sister’s dying wish was for him to bring me into the family, give me a home so I wouldn’t persist as some feral gutter orphan.”

 

A tick of silence before Ichigo ventures, “How come he hasn’t responded to you? Did your message get through?”

 

“Nii-sama,” she says slowly, trying to describe the man who still remains an imposing enigma to her. “Has very strict views on the importance of abiding by the law, and technically, I’m on the wrong side of the law right now.”

 

“The law isn’t always right.” Ichigo’s eyes are open now, brown irises flaring with conviction as he says, “Adopted or not, he accepted you into his family. That’s not a promise he can revoke. That means you should get every protection an older brother owes to a younger sister.”

 

Rukia shifts her position a step over; it’s awkward standing in front of him between his lanky legs so her fingers run through the roots at his hairline with particular efficiency before transitioning to smear colorant across his right temple. “Maybe that’s true for other people, but I don’t even know if I can really call him my brother anymore. You give up all your attachments when you commit to the Jedi Code because the Order becomes your family and because you’re to cherish all lives equally. So that we can protect as many lives as possible.”

 

“Are those words straight from the Code? I like the sound of that…” he says softly.

 

She leans in to brush the excess dye from the shell of his ear, and their noses nearly graze as he abruptly turns his head toward her to add, “But that seems very hard for any flesh and blood person to practice.”

 

Rukia straightens immediately, her lashes flitting over irises determined to not reveal her discomposure. “Looks like we’ve sufficiently converted you from a ginger to raven-haired for now. Finish up and rinse. I’ll see you outside. About time we say farewell to this world.”  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Lake Country, Naboo**

 

Admittedly, Rukia’s divided most of her lifespan between military outposts on semi-hostile planets and the starship-congested, mega metropolis of Coruscant, but as far as she’s concerned, Naboo is the most beautiful place in the galaxy. On the lower, lake-bordering slopes of the otherwise verdant mountains lie the red-roofed villas linked by gently arched stone bridges and a love for horticultural perfection. Every corner Rukia turns, the walls blanket their grey stone with ivy, residential thresholds and window boxes greet with vivid blooms, and verandas drip with a purple blossom that Yuzu at one point sweetly compares to the color of Rukia’s eyes.

 

Don’t get used to it, Rukia sternly instructs herself. This paradise is not her home, the family harboring her is not her own. Thus, she continues waking as the mountaintops are reddening, before the sun has fully crested them, and doing what she knows best: train.

 

She’s jogged to a waterfall-encircled, grassy field and run through Shii-Cho slashes and Makashi footwork exercises on the morning Ichigo finds her there.

 

“Yuzu was saying I’m the last one to get up,” he remarks, taking in the surroundings. “Said she’s seen you going out for exercise at the crack of dawn every day.”

 

“I don’t want to forget what it means to fight like a Jedi,” Rukia explains. “And this spot’s perfect because no one really comes down here or can hear the saber’s buzz over the waterfalls.”

 

“Right, but —” Ichigo takes a step forward, his gaze traveling to the wooden training staffs poking out of her bag of spare practice equipment. “Don’t you think it’d be easier to not forget if you were actually sparring with another person?”

 

“You volunteering ‘cause you want to pick up some Jedi techniques?” she asks, brow furrowed.

 

“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to have my arm cauterized from your lightsaber during a practice duel, but I could at least learn some of the basics, couldn’t I? If we ever run into an Inquisitor or another attacker, I could be of some use at least and be better able to protect my family.”

 

“Back on Corellia...the reason why the Empire was trying to capture you...are you Force-sensitive?”

 

He breaks eye connection, studying the horizon instead as if the answer lay behind one of the waterfalls. “My mom used to say everyone has the Force inside them.”

 

“That’s true. It’s just that certain lightsaber Forms, certain types of the combat styles, are designed to use the Force and the saber at the same time. I could — well, there are ways one might trigger Force abilities to manifest, but the ones I know would require me delving into your mind, and I really try to avoid that unless there are no other options. I figure you wouldn’t want me to read your innermost thoughts either, right?”

 

Ichigo gives her a strange look. “You can do that?”

 

“Sometimes, but my master used to always tell us it’s unethical to abuse the Force in such a manner for personal advantage.” She slips him a sly look. “Is there something you don’t want me to know?”

 

“Me? I’m an open book. Now show me that swing you were doing before I got here.”

 

* * *

 

Damn long reaches. Ichigo lunges at her, misses, and exhibits an annoyingly enviable ability at launching right back into a renewal of an attack. Ah well. He, like every other taller opponent Rukia has faced, is just covering the distance for her, saving her legs some energy and effort.

 

As soon as she detects his practice staff dipping for a slash at her lower body, she leaps, rebounding from the edge of his stick and springing into an overhead strike. Dodging, he parries her reverse cut before spinning into a semi-circle to face her from another angle. She goes for the attack again, and they exchange blows before Ichigo takes a swipe at her stomach that sends Rukia dancing to the side, batting his stick downward, and bouncing off his staff again to bring her weapon to his neck.

 

His eyes widen, but rather than accepting defeat and how such a move would play out very differently if she were actually holding a lightsaber to his skin, Ichigo ducks and obstinately attacks again.

 

Back in her street-brawling days, Rukia would’ve likely attempted the same, but now she’s a little miffed that he isn’t giving her the chance to elaborate on what makes for a good defense so she parries, parries, bouncing her practice sword off his for momentum before thrusting forward upon spotting an opening. He stumbles back, again losing any stance ready for a defense, and she whacks at his wrist, not hard enough to break anything, but enough to make him yelp and drop his stick. This time when she lunges, he goes down, and she plops herself down to sit on him for good measure.

 

Whatever squirming movement he was making to get back up ceases instantly as she adjusts, and he provides a surprisingly stationary, pink-cheeked seat as she tells him, “I was going to explain the Soresu defensive form to you, but then it just became amusing to watch your flailing attempts at landing a hit. You need to learn to not completely let your guard down after a parry. Don’t keep your arm so openly extended. Bring your sword immediately back to guard your front.”

 

His hips buck, and Rukia finds her perch overturned as he rolls her over and under him. Moist blades of grass tickle her temples.

 

“You want to lecture about letting your guard down?” Ichigo retorts. His breathing sounds unusually heavy and belabored from merely flipping their positions.

 

This boy. Rukia rolls her eyes. Reaches out with her senses, feeling through the grass for — ah, there it is. She sees the butt of the practice sword emerge just over the crown of Ichigo’s spiky, sun-tinged hair — and brings it down.

 

“Ow!” The stick falls at a rate hardly enough to give him a concussion, but his head drops down on her shoulder, warm breath grazing her neck. She scrambles out from underneath him, brushing off dew and grass.

 

“Don’t forget, I can still use the Force on you.”

 

“Can we make that a rule in these fights? No Force tricks?” Ichigo asks with a scowl, rubbing the back of his head.

 

“Sure, most of the time, but if we’re going to improve your chances of standing up to any Inquisitors in the future, you should always keep in mind Force abilities are another factor to watch out for. Now about Soresu…”

 

 


End file.
